


Music To My Soul

by emzular



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Drunkenness, England - Freeform, Homosexuality, Illegal Activities, M/M, Post-World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3803443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emzular/pseuds/emzular
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1920s England. Bard Bowman, the eldest son of his middle-class parents, kind, attractive but, much to his mother’s unhappiness, still single. After 20 years of being paraded around by his parents, Bard has gotten tired of it. The family are always attending dinners, parties and balls. But albeit being in a good social circle, the Bowmans aren't rich and people only include them because of their well-known family name. However one night Bard meets the somewhat older Thranduil Oropherion. Rich beyond belief and the highest of the high, what will come of the two in a country where being homosexual is punishable by a jail sentence?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Music To My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> I've written most of this from a hospital bed so don't shoot me if it's damn awful! There are typos and spelling mistakes but my brother (aka my beta) is going to check through that tomorrow! Anyway, the BBB2015 has been a brilliant way to cheer me up whilst being in hospital so I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> ALSO HERE IS THE AMAZING ART FOR THIS FIC http://ducky377.deviantart.com/art/Barduil-Big-Bang-fanart-LUKE-RONAN-528514276

 

“Bard?” Bard!”

“Yes mother?”

“Are you ready?!”

“Almost!”

“Well Alfrid has the car started and your father is waiting!”

“Christ, mother, give me a-“

“Do _not_ use that language in front of me!”

“Mother i am twenty years old, i can use whatever language i want to! Just give me five minutes.”

“Make it three!”

“Fine.”

Bard Bowman shuffled back into his bedroom, quickly facing his mirror and smoothing down his unruly hair. This was the second part this week he had been bullied into going to by his ever encompassing parents. It wasn’t that he disliked attending the parties; it was simply that he found them boring.

Bard examined himself in the mirror. He sighed. His waistcoat looked slightly frayed but his shirt and trousers were neatly pressed.  His socks were hidden under his perfectly tailored trousers and his shoes had been recently varnished, thanks to a kind boy in the local town that bard had, out of the good of his heart, paid extra for his job on the leather.  Bard felt as if he looked the part of an upper-class gentleman but, Christ, did he feel far from one. The pleasantries and the copious drinking – that Bard could do. But the arrogance? The snobbishness? That was his parent’s forte and Bard would be eternally happy if he never found himself in conversation about “the size of one’s house” or “the wages one pays to ones servants.”

There was a loud noise from outside and Bard rushed to his window. Alfrid had left the car running too long and the thing had clearly overheated. That would mean it would be another ten minutes before the car was ready to leave the house. Bard smiled slightly, thanking God at the extra time. His father swore colourfully downstairs and Bard’s mother scolded him black and blue. Bard ducked away from his window. He supposed he should go downstairs and show face, offer to help their weasel of a driver a hand at cooling down the car since it was Bard’s fault the thing had over-heated.

“Bard Bowman if you do not come downstairs this instant...!” Came the shrill voice of his mother. Bard couldn’t help but smile. Despite the woman’s moaning, Bard was thankful that he came from a close family where blood was thicker than anything else. Many of Bard’s friend’s valued money or status well above their own flesh and blood. That was not something Bard could ever consider and so, with one final look in the mirror, Bard grabbed his suit jacket and left his room, ensuring his bedroom door was shut firmly behind him, sealing the inside away from the prying eyes of servants and siblings.

 

 

“So who will be there tonight?” Bard asked as Alfrid opened the car door, helping first out Mrs Bowman and then Bard himself. His father walked around the car to meet them. They were stood outside a large manor house, one of which Bard has not visited since he was in his early teens. The Durin family were one that had once been close with the Bowmans but during the war a dispute over money had caused a monumentous fall out. However after both Mr. Durin and Mr Bowman had both received dual promotions at work, their issues were resolved and thus came the invitation to this evening event. When he had been younger, Bard had come to the house at least once a week to play with the Durin children who were of a similar age to Bard and it was the prospect of seeing them or perhaps having a glass of wine with them that was enabling him to attend this evening do.

“Well, all of the Durin family will be present, aside from their eldest who, if I’m not mistaken, is attending University,” answered Bard’s mother. “You know most of the relatives present along with a few government officials whom work with Mr Durin and your father. Also the Baggins family will be present, along with a few other families of that sort.”

“I believe there will also be a few high-up families of whom we don’t know, Bard,” His father added. “So try not to be an embarrassment, eh?” It was intended as a joke, his parents laughing, but Bard couldn’t help the sudden stab of pain he felt at the jibe.

Alfrid caught his father’s attention and Mr Bowman dismissed the man until midnight when he would need to come back and collect them. Alfrid seemed thrilled at the opportunity of a night off and drove back into town. Bard then followed his parents up the long driveway and onto the porch. Bard sighed, hands going into his pockets. He sighed again when he realised he has no cigarettes left in his packet. His mother glanced behind her and glared. Bard ducked his head. He suddenly longed for his old friend Percy and his constant supply of cigarettes. Much to his misfortune Percy hadn’t had the best start in life. Growing up near the factories in a one bed-room house with four siblings, Percy’s best bet had been the factories themselves. War had hit and Percy had excitedly signed up. He hadn’t come back.

Bard shook the thought from his head. Not something to think about when one is about to attend a party. He shuffled forward, moving to stand beside his father as his mother handed over their invitation to the man at the door. The man nodded them inside. The three were instantly handed a glass of wine each and shown into the ballroom. Three minutes in and Bard had managed to slip away from his parent’s side and wheedle his way away.

 

Music flowed through the house like air, swirling and encompassing all the guests and even the servants. People swayed, danced, jived, moving their over-tired or alcohol filled bodies in time (or out of time in the case of many upper-class elderly gentlemen) to the percussion led tunes. The Durin’s always threw parties with a heavy percussion vibe. Bard had never really seen the need to be so heavy, preferring something string based himself, but he could appreciate the effort.

After an hour of pleasantries, Bard found himself alone, secluded in an area he remembered from his childhood somewhat. It was only after sometime of contemplating the meaning of life, as people often did when well onto their second or third glass of wine, that Bard felt the prescence of another in his safe haven.

“Pardon me...?”

“Sorry?” Bard asked, his skin prickling with unease at realising someone had discovered this spot in which he was using to ‘take a breather’ (“i am not hiding,” Bard repeatedly had told himself) A while back, Bard had made his way up a back flight of stairs in the corridor outside the ballroom that he remembered he’d played on with Kili Durin as a child. His memory had been correct and he’d found himself in a deserted corridor used only by maids, that led to a small balcony that overlooked the back garden which was, unsurprisingly, full of drunk men and giggly women. Bard had seen his parents half an hour ago as the clock struck eleven, sat at a table with a man and his daughter that, if Bard was correct, were Lord Elrond and lady Arwen, and a couple Bard did not know. Bard knew that his parents had been hoping to pawn him off to Arwen, a “good marriage” his father had said. It wasn’t that Bard didn’t find her appearing, for she was very beautiful and regal looking. It was just that she was too... calm for Bard. She was gentle, incredibly intelligent and that was not the sort of woman bard wanted to spend the rest of his life married to. Plus, bard knew for a fact she was very much interested in a local soldier but he was too low status for her father to ever agree to their marriage. In all honesty, Bard hardly wanted to get married as it was. And so he had raced up the stairs and away from the searching eyes of his parents and hidden away on the balcony. The balcony that now held Bard and another man who was frowning down at the brunette with a sense of moderate disbelief.

“You appear to have spilt wine all over yourself and i wasn’t sure if you were aware.”

Bard stared at this man before him. Tall, slightly taller than Bard himself. Thinner framed but far from weak. Unusually long white-blonde hair trailed down the male’s shoulder, tied together in a loose pony-tail. It was incredibly apparent that this man was comfortable sitting far outside of the social norms. His cheeks and chin were as bare as a babe’s bottom; no sign of hair graced his face. His pale, almost white skin caused his bright eyes to stand out: eyes which were staring expectantly back at Bard.

“Oh!” Bard exclaimed, suddenly realising what the man had said, mind racing for an answer. The man was right and, in Bard’s haste to escape the ball, he must have dropped his glass all down himself. A large red stain protruded from Bard’ white, pressed shirt, “Damn,” He hissed, quickly adjusting his waistcoat to attempt to cover the stain. It worked somewhat but a small dark patch poked out from the black material. Bard swore under his breath.

“How did you manage that, may I ask?” The man queried. Bard stared down at himself in dismay, inwardly cursing his stupidity.

“My parents wish to find me a wife – it has become a common place for me at these parties, for them to try and ‘set me up’,” Bard murmured. He then looked down at his shirt and sighed. “Apparently, in my haste to escape, i appear to spilled my own wine down myself.” To his surprise, the other man raised an eyebrow. Bard was momentarily confused as to whether the other man was un-amused or incredibly amused. A noise came from the taller, blonde male, something akin to a scoff. Bard took the man to be amused then, as opposed to un-amused. So Bard took that as a good sign and he held out his hand. “I’m Bard, by the way. Bard Bowman.”

The man ‘ahh’ed and shook the hand. “Bowman – I used to work with a John Bowman?”

“My father,” Bard confirmed.

“Small world. I’m Thranduil Oropherion.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bard said, offering Thranduil a smile. “My attire, however, is going to be no pleasure to explain to my mother.”

“Do you reside with your parents then?” Thranduil asked conversationally. Bard had a small moment of panic. Bard was aware he was that respectable middle ground between plain and good-looking and that he was well travelled due to his status but that did not mean he was at all confident. His constant avoidance of his parents and Lady Arwen was proof of this. Of course he could stand his ground in a conversation and he wasn’t alien to chatting with others. But here he was being asked to converse by a man much more respectably dressed and with far more handsome features; the man looked positively royal for God’s sake. Bard was not shy, far from it. But he wasn’t the sort to avidly engage others in conversation. He preferred a more solitary life, a life filled with books, fishing and the odd walk through the near-by forests. But now was not the time to ponder what he would rather be doing. Now was the time to answer this man of clearly higher-status so as to not, as his mother would have said, “offend the bloody gentleman.”

“Unfortunately so,” Bard replied honestly. “Albeit my turning twenty in January and being in permanent work over two years now, my father is unwilling to regard me as an equal and I am going to have to marry before I get a moments rest.”

“Unfortunate indeed,” Thranduil said. “Do not fret; my father refuses to let me drive the family car due my unmarried status and I’m nearing thirty.” Thranduil smirked at his own anecdote and Bard laughed.

“Perhaps I should not worry too much then,” Bard said. He frowned. “How do you know the Durin family? I used to frequent them often as a child yet I knew no Oropherion.” Thranduil sighed.

“I did not want to come this eve, let me say that,” Thranduil murmured. “My family and the Durin-line have always been in each other’s line of work. My grandfather worked with Thorin Durin’s grandfather and they founded a business together. After some spat over stolen land in the years before the Great War, the business split. I am here as a formality.”

“I see,” Bard said, nodding. “And this is why you have come to hide on this terrace?” Thranduil hummed in response. There was a long silence in which both men pondered each other’s situations. Thranduil leant against the balcony beside Bard and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Bard’ eyes lit up and Thranduil smirked, offering one to Bard as he took and lit one himself. Bard took one of the offered sticks and let the elder male light it for him. Bard took a long drag and sighed into the exhale.

“Parties like this bore me,” Thranduil mumbled, smoke flowing from his lips as he spoke.

“Agreed,” Bard added. “I would rather take a job as a chauffeur or a bloody farmhand than come to these every week. In fact, farmhand doesn’t sound like a bad job now that i think about it.” Thranduil nodded slightly in response, clearly in agreement. Silence fell between the men, the only sounds coming from the slow burning tobacco and the gentle chatter from the ballroom beneath.

Both men had almost finished their cigarettes, the air easy between them, when the silence was shattered. A harsh cry of “BARD” shot through the air and the two gentlemen stared down at a figure in the garden below.

“Damn,” Bard murmured as his inebriated mother stared up at him, shaking hands on her unsteady hips.

“Bard Bowman, you come down here right this instant!”

“I presume that is your mother?” Thranduil asked. Bard nodded, sighing. Thranduil stubbed out his cigarette, Bard taking his final drag before following suit.

“Bard!” Yelled Mrs Bowman again. Thranduil glanced at Bard, the beginnings of a smirk on his lips, the first sign that the man possessed an emotion other than ‘monotonous’.

“God, don’t laugh,” Bard begged as he ran his hands through his hair and tugged his jacket across his body, attempting to hastily do up the buttons. Thranduil, whose hands were not shaking, stepped in and did them for him. “Thank you,” Bard said his voice calmer and somewhat softer. It may have seen strange, to some, for a man of twenty to allow a man of almost thirty to do his jacket buttons up but Bard was filled up with alcohol, his airways clouded with tobacco, and the male could find nothing wrong with feeling the blonde male’s soft hands on his shivering body.

“It’s no problem,” Thranduil said in response. He held out his cigarette packet. “One for the road?”

“Oh no,” Bard said, shaking his head. “I’ve already taken one!”

“Then you’ll have to owe me one,” Thranduil said, his expression there was no way that Bard was able to refuse this offer. Bard went to reply but another shrill cry from his mother halted him. Thranduil’s smile turned sympathetic. "Take one, Bard. Owe me next time.”

“You seem so sure there’ll be a next time,” Bard said quietly as he gingerly took the offered cig, stowing it in his jacket pocket. Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

“We are both social outcasts, Bard,” He said. “I believe we will no doubt find each other hiding away from the crowd at some ghastly party sometime soon. Now, Bard, go – your mother is frantic.”

“Thank you,” Bard said honestly, smiling genuinely. “For the cig.” He held out his hand and Thranduil shook it.

“Until next time,” Thranduil said.

“Indeed,” Bard replied with a conforming nod. And with that, Bard rushed inside and down the corridor. He reached the end and, at the stairwell, glanced back. Thranduil had lit himself another cigarette, the orange-red hue of the burning tobacco lighting his face against the silver glow of the moon. His face had stiffened, lacking any emotion except a frown, as if confused but tranquil at the same time. The elder seemed to notice Bard was staring at him and nodded in farewell. Bard hastily raised a hand in equal farewell before ducking down the stairs and throwing himself regrettably into the punishment he was sure to receive from his mother due to his absence all night.

 

 

It was gone two in the morning when Bard crawled into bed. His mother had taken pleasure in reprimanding him not only the entire car ride home but well into the early hours of the morning. It was only when the maid had come running into the front room, exclaiming that “Mr Bowman is ill and asking for you, ma’am,” that Bard was left in peace, his mother rushing off to her bedchamber to see to her no doubt alcohol poisoned husband. Bard was glad he was able to handle his drink, not inheriting such an ugly trait from his father.

Bard settled into bed and sighed, his muscles physically exhausted. It had been too long since Bard had last been out and socialised. It was taking its toll on him. Since turning 18 Bard had attended anything his parents had desired him to but these last few months, in the light of his father’s promotion, Bard had been able to hide away, occupying himself elsewhere. It seemed those days were well and truly over. Bard thought he would mind a lot more than he did. Of course there was that unnerving sense of annoyance at having to come back into the social group he'd tried so hard to escape from, but there as less animosity than Bard had presumed he’d feel.

He stared at his pile of clothes, left on his desk chair for either he or the maid to sort out on the morning. His thoughts went to his soaked shirt and tie. He sighed, head flopping back onto his pillow. He’d ask father, when he was feeling better, about the Oropherions; Bard had only heard the name in passing. Supposedly there was once a Mrs Oropherion so beautiful that should a man look at her, he would melt. Thranduil Oropherion was a name Bard had previously never heard of until they’d met on the terrace but perhaps Thranduil didn’t live in the area. A traveller, perhaps? A plantation owner overseas? Bard didn’t know and he was too tired and drained to truly coherently think about it. His eyes flickered shut and he fell asleep, thoughts drifting between alcohol, his stained shirt and the intriguing pull of the blonde haired male.

 

It was his sister who woke Bard on Sunday, her eyes burning with anger and insistence.

“We’re going to be late for church,” Was all the girl said before she stormed over to the curtains, wrenched them open and stomped out of the room. The sunlight was blinding and Bard rolled over, cascading himself out of bed in the process. He cursed, head luckily pillowed b y his arms but his ribs taking a sharp knock against the wooden floor. He groaned, pushing himself to his knees where he rubbed his hands through his hair and over his face. He looked up and spotted his younger brother, still in his pyjamas and a weary look on his face.

“C’mon, big bro,” the younger said drowsily. He cocked a smirk. “We’re gonna be late for church or whatever hell Sigrid is taking to us today.”

Bard later learned, once he was appropriately dressed and being shovelled into the car along with his siblings _by_ his sibling, that his father was ill in bed and a doctor had been called, mother too worried to leave his side. Bard had, therefore, been left in charge of his younger siblings and, as Alfrid drove them to the town church. Mass passed slower than usual for Bard who usually found it to be brilliantly fast. He couldn’t stop his thoughts from racing. Was his father okay? Had he been hurt last night? Was his mother still mad? And Bard closed his eyes as last night swarmed upon him like a flock of birds chasing the sun, a looming headache crashing over him as the after-effect of the wine took its toll.

 

Bard spent the rest of his Sunday cooped up in the library, curtains closed, head in a book. The only thing that changed was that around seven a plate of meat and potatoes was delivered to him along with the news that his father was resting up well and that he and mother were taking an early night. A letter had been delivered to him at around ten by the very tired looking youngest member of the family, Bard’s nine year old sister who, according to her, had been shooed off to bed but had made a deal with the maid that she would only sleep if she was allowed to come and say goodnight to Bard. Bard had thanked the girl, hugging her and sending her on her way. Bard had not been disturbed for the next hour and he presumed that meant the entire house had both taken early nights and that the maids had finished their work, heading to bed also. It was quarter past eleven when Bard put down his book and knocked the letter off the desk.

“Oh,” He murmured, his voice echoing around the dark, deserted room, the light from the moon peeking through the curtains and his lamp the only source of visibility. Bard put a mark in his book and placed it on the table, reaching down and grabbing the letter which had fallen to the floor. The letter must have been posted through the door as there was no address on the envelope and cannot have been posted sans an address line. _Bard Bowman_ had been scrawled in relatively neat but definitely male handwriting. Bard frowned and opened the envelope, pulling out a folded up letter. Unfolding it, he smiled slightly, guessing who the letter could be from.

_Bard,_

_I am attending an event next weekend at the Durin’s – Dis Durin’s to be precise. Curiosity held me and I wondered if you would be attending._

_Yours, Thranduil Oropherion._

_P.S. i had your address saved from when i worked with your father, do not worry – i have not been spying._

Bard laughed at the post script and leant back in the armchair. He admittedly hadn't expected to hear from Thranduil at all. Not that Bard wasn’t thrilled (Bard was incredibly thrilled that he had managed to captivate the attention and possibly potential to strike up a friendship with the man) but he was certainly, incredibly shocked.

He fingered the letter between his thumb and forefinger, face frowning into lines. Did he reply now? The letter had been delivered sometime this afternoon. If he wrote it now and asked the doorman, to deliver it tomorrow was that too soon? Would that annoy Thranduil? Would it seem peculiar? He hummed, folding up the letter and slotting it into his jacket pocket. He’d reply in the morning, send the letter around four in the afternoon in the off chance that Thranduil would be out and not see it til the next day. Bard’ frown deepened then. Did Thranduil even reside in town? Or did Thranduil reside elsewhere? Bard had no address and he wasn’t too happy about asking his father for an address if he was still unwell. Bard realised he’d have to venture into town and ask around. He sighed, a hand running through his hair. Tilda and Bain had tutoring tomorrow and Sigrid would most likely be off to the town to buy some books for the week. He could hitch a lift to town with her under the pretence of running and errand for father? Ideally Bard would have asked his father for Thranduil Oropherions address but with his father still being ill he wouldn’t be in his right mind to give any sort of information.

Content with his plan, Bard picked up his book and extinguished the lamp, using the light of the moon to guide him to the library door. Slipping out into the dark corridor, Bard regretted his decision to stay up so late. He clutched his book in his hand and made his way down the hall, thankful at least that he knew his home by heart. Up a flight of stairs and he was on his floor. He passed his brother’s room; no light under the door informing his that Richard was asleep. Bard reached his own door and headed inside; making sure the door was shirt behind him. He stripped off his day clothes and changed into pyjamas. Curtains closed, book on his bedside table, Bard slipped into bed and allowed himself to fall into slumber.

 

 

Bard’s sisters were somewhat puzzled when Bard slid into the car beside them the next morning.

“What are you doing?” One asked as Alfrid began the drive to town.

“Running an errand,” Bard explained, shifting his hat atop his head.

“Why?” The other asked, her frown growing.

“I am delivering a letter,” Bard replied with a shrug.

“Right...” The first said, pursing her lip. “Is it for father?”

“Mhmm,” Bard said, nodding. Their father’s condition had worsened overnight and he had been signed off work for a week. Bard had spoken to him that morning and the man had told his eldest son that, in the light of his illness, Bard would have to go into work for him on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. So yes, he was having to work in place of father.

The sisters chattered aimlessly about their plans for the day; shopping with Aowen, Lunch with the book-club, philosophical talks at the library then returning home around five pm. Bard listened briefly, making comments here and there when needed. He was somewhat relieved when Alfrid pulled up into town. The sisters kissed their brother on the cheek and thanked Alfrid before collecting their bags from the front seat and trotting off towards the coffee shop. Bard sighed.

“Here good for you, sir?” Alfrid asked.

“Here are great, thanks Alfrid,” Bard replied, sliding out the car himself. He shut the door and leant into the front window. “Doubt anyone else will need you til noon when Bain will probably wake up. Take the morning off.”

“Sir, I-“

“Don’t even try to refuse the offer, Alfrid,” Bard said. “Father and mother will hardly be needing you this week.”

“Th-Thank you, Sir,” Alfrid said, eyes wide and smile bright. “Thank you!”

“Just be back home for noon or else Bain will shout up a storm,” Bard said and with that, Bard turned and walked into the centre of town, pace set at a natural easy pace, direction pointed towards the post office. The walk was pleasant, Bard found. He rarely ventured into town alone, often accompanied by a member of his family or a friend of sorts. He and Bain usually found themselves running errands for someone or Bard ended up taking Tilda for some form of clothes fitting. Sometimes Bard would meet friends in one of the many pubs or coffee shops. Sometimes Bard would join his father at work. And on Wednesdays through Fridays, Bard came to work. A rather exciting job, Bard thought so himself. He was a publisher for a rather prestigious fiction company and his days were spent reading, reviewing and reporting back on the books pros and cons and whether the company should publish it. Wednesdays through Friday were the days in which he was allowed in the office. Bard usually only headed into work in the mornings, picked up a new manuscript and then returned home.

“Mr Bowman!” Exclaimed the woman in the post office window as Bard entered the building.

“Hello Rosie,” Bard said smiling politely. Rosie and her husband Sam and Bard had worked side by side during the first year of the war, hence their easy friendship albeit Bard’ higher status and the husband and wife’s not so high status. “How was your weekend?”

“Husband took me for a fancy dinner, like,” Rosie explained. “Mum had Tessa.”

“How is Tessa?” Bard asked.

“She’s getting on proper nicely, thank you Mr Bowman,” Rosie said. Bard raised an eyebrow.

“Rosie, seriously?” Bard asked. “The full name agenda again?”

“It’s courtesy,” Rosie said with a shrug. “Boss will have my head if he hears me calling ya Bard.”

“Well,” Bard said, shrugging. “Mr Bowman is my father.”

“Well then, Bard,” Rosie said, emphasising the name. “What can i do for ya?”

“I need you to find an address for me,” Bard admitted. “Rather unorthodox, i know, but i received a letter from a... new acquaintance of mine and he neglected to leave an address.”

“A new acquaintance?” Rosie asked, suddenly intrigued, leaning on the desk. Bard nodded. “Do tell.”

“A Mr. Thranduil Oropherion?” Bard said. “Heard of him?”

“Ahh, no,” Rosie admitted. “But,” She glanced behind her. “Boss is out talking to the delivery boys. I can do a bit of research, find you an address?”

“That’d be brilliant, Rosie, thank you,” Bard said, smiling in relief. Rosie gave him a cheeky grin and shuffled into the back room. Bard took a seat on one of the wooden chairs and pulled out the letter from Thranduil. He went over it again, working out a reply in his head. Once he had a reply he’d go to work, inform his manager that he’d be unable to come in Thursday and Friday, perhaps drop in and say hello to Stephan or Harry, and then head to the coffee shop on Davis Way where he’d write his response to the letter and return to the post office to post it.

“Okay, Bard,” Rosie called, coming around the desk and planting a piece of scrap paper in his hand, a few words and numbers scrawled on it. “I’ve just made a mess in the backroom so I’d suggest not posting the letter here – pop down Masham Lane to post it. Anyway, here’s your friends address – lives in the old Oropherion residence just outa town so you were right to come ask as he doesn’t live within the city lines. Anyway, pop by sometime more. I miss you. I know Sam and me were thinking of inviting you round for dinner sometime?”

“That would be lovely,” Bard said. He got to his feet. Rosie gave him a quick hug and headed off back round the desk. “Give me a bell about dinner?”

“Will do,” She said smiling. Bard then left the post office, heading towards his office.

 

       Thranduil Oropherion

       Sindarin Manor

       Mirkwood Moore,

       Hampton.

_Thranduil,_

_I wasn’t expecting your letter. It came as a pleasant surprise. I wouldn’t accuse you of spying, never fear! Yes, i will be attending the party, thankfully you are also – I will try to not spill wine down myself this time!_

_Sincerely,_

_Bard Bowman_

_P.S. I had to question a post office for your address. Not spying material either, i believe!_

 

 

Bard was never one to look forward to dressing up for it meant having to find a suit that was not creased, shoved in the back of his wardrobe or dusty due to lack of wear (a maid once cried at seeing the poor state of Bard’s suits). Bard dressed and combed his hair of his face. For once, Bard had agreed to going to the ball without argument. Bard’s mother had been somewhat shocked but had, evidentially, been incredibly happy that her son was finally starting to show “signs of being a real man of money”, a phrase which made Bard’s skin crawl.

It is safe to say Bard was anticipating this evening. His mother, who was still angry at him from his actions at the last party, spoke nothing but pleasantries to him the entire car-ride there. The party was being held at Dis Durin’s, the sister of Thorin Durin, who’s party it had been a week ago. Dis was much harsher, less talkative than her brother but she was less judging. She would keep to herself, only fussing over her family. This was why Bard was much more willing to attend this evening (it had absolutely nothing to do with Thranduil, he kept insisting).

They arrived at Dis Durin’s residence and exited the car. Mr Bowman had not accompanied them this evening, still suffering from his illness that Bard was insisting he was faking. Bard followed his mother up to the front doors of the house. There were others exiting cars around them. Bard kept his head down, not wanting to accidentally eye up someone.

Bard and his mother were waved inside once they handed over their invitations. After a grand total of eighteen seconds Bard regretted his decision to attend the ball. A young girl who claimed she knew him took him by the hand and demanded he dance with her. It had been the worst three minutes of Bard’s life (yet the best three minutes of hers by the looks of it). Afterwards Bard found himself trapped in a corner by three men his age, one of their wife’s, another’s girlfriend and a set of female twins. The conversation revolved around education. University. Bard longed to tune out, to switch off or just plain escape but they kept asking his opinion. Bard felt sick to his stomach and, more so than anything, incredibly bored.

It was like a light shining down from heaven when a familiar voice filled his ears.

 “Bard?” A voice asked directly behind Bard. The voice was a saviour, a voice that Bard had spent a surprising amount of time thinking about this last week. The group of youths who had bombarded Bard seemed to recognise the voice also. Bard turned and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thranduil,” Bard said smiling slightly. “How are you?”

“I am well,” Thranduil said a light smirk on his lips. Bard was relieved. Thranduil could clearly sense Bard’s discomfort at being enveloped in a conversation with a group of people. Thranduil had, so to speak, come to his rescue. “Yourself?”

“Well, yes,” Bard replied, nodding.

“I have some business to discuss with you,” Thranduil then said. “If you are not too busy.” Bard glanced back at the group he had been dragged into. They were all stood, eyes wide, staring.

“I’m not,” Bard said and, with that, Thranduil turned. Bard gave an awkward backwards wave to the group and followed the elder. Thranduil and Bard headed outside into the garden. No one else was out here. “Thank you for that.”

“I watched them drag you into their mindless chatter,” Thranduil admitted. “I was not sure if you would need my assistance.”

“Thank you for it, anyway,” Bard said, smiling. Thranduil nodded. He gestured for them to walk further up the garden. Bard hummed in agreement and the two made their way out towards the grass.

 

After a few sneaky trips back into the party for refills of wine, Bard eventually gave up and collapsed to the ground.

“I am done,” Bard admitted, holding up his hands.

“Done?” Thranduil asked from where he was leaning against a tree a few metres away.

“Done with... with tottering back inside for m-more wine,” Bard clarified, flopping onto his back, staring up at the dark, star-littered sky above him.

“But I am no way near done,” Thranduil replied, raising a pointed eyebrow.

“No,” Bard said, shaking his head. His hair-band had come loose and his wavy hair was splayed out around his head. He sighed. “I am done.” A tranquil silence encompassed the night, the two males relaxing in their intoxicated state. The only sounds were the faint cheers and shouts coming from the party down the other end of the garden.

“You should come for dinner with me,” Thranduil said after a while. Bard glanced over at the blonde.

“I should, should I?” Bard asked, raising an eyebrow. Thranduil nodded solemnly. “Where?”

“Somewhere... posh,” Thranduil replied, raising an eyebrow of his home.

“Obviously,” Bard mumbled. Something collided with Bard’s back and he fell forwards, rolling down the slight slope. Bard laughed, eventually coming to a stop. He turned around and found a smirking Thranduil, arms crossed, leg still outstretched.

“I hear Gondor is nice this time of year,” Thranduil said as if he hadn’t just kicked Bard down the hill. Bard got to his feet, brushing himself down. He knew he’d have a large grass stain on his back but Bard hardly cared. His mother would probably give him a telling off for weeks. Bard hardly cared.

“The last time I went to Gondor a waitress spilt hot soup on my shirt and my mother locked me up in the house, blaming it on me,” Bard replied, hands making their way into his pocket. Thranduil made a noise in the back of his throat. Bard assumed it was as close to a laugh as Thranduil would ever get.

“That is rather unfortunate,” Thranduil answered, smirking. “Still, it is good this time of year.”

“Honestly?” Bard replied. “I think you are too drunk to realise you are inviting me to dinner.”

“I am not drunk _enough_ , Bard,” Thranduil corrected. “Yet here i am, standing with my offer.” And with that, Thranduil made a wide gesture. The wine glass in his hand sloshed over and wine spilt onto the grass. Thranduil wobbled on his feet and the male clutched at the tree beside him with his free hand to keep him stable. Bard burst out laughing, clapping his hands together. Thranduil glared.

“Think you might be drunker than you think, Thranduil,” Bard replied, grinning wide. Thranduil shook his head but the male wasn’t angry.

There was a loud cheer from inside the house and the two males turned. Someone had crashed through the French doors, drunk and spewing expletives left, right and centre. Dis Durin began yelling.

“Perhaps this is ample time to make our leave?” Thranduil asked. Bard chuckled, nodding. The two backed up until they reached the back gate of Dis Durin’s garden. Bard realised this was probably a very bad idea, escaping a party with a man he hardly knew, but in his alcohol induced state, Bard hardly cared. Thranduil was respected, a very rich and socially high-up male within the social circle of Middle Earth and Bard could not think of one reason he should not go with Thranduil.

Bard’s mother, however, had a very different view on the situation when Bard arrived home in the early hours of the morning, staggering up his front driveway, grinning ear to ear.

“Where _have_ you been?!” She exclaimed. Bard, still intoxicated after wandering through the neighbourhood for an hour with Thranduil drinking all the booze they could find. Bard had only returned home when he’d reached the state of vomiting. Thranduil had found a telephone box and had called his driver. Feren had showed up and driven Bard home before taking the grouchy Thranduil home. Apparently, when sobering up, Thranduil turned grouchy. That titbit of information was one that Bard would very much like to keep stored away for a rainy day but he doubted he’d remember it in the morning.

“Out,” Was Bard’s simple reply.

“Yes, Bard, I can see that,” His mother hissed. “What i would like to know is where you disappeared off to!”

“A friend and I-“

“A friend?!” Mrs Bowman exclaimed. “Son, people told me they had seen you with Thranduil Oropherion!”

“Yes,” Was all Bard could say in response.

“You are friends with Mr Oropherion?” Mrs Bowman asked, eyes widening. “Of all the people, bard...!”

“What is wrong with him, mother?” Bard asked, some words slurring together. Bard topped, body unstable and unable to balance. He clattered into the wall beside him, arms flailing out to grab the stair banister.

“Nothing,” Mrs Bowman replied, sighing heavily. “But that man is incredibly rich and also renowned for being immensely manipulative and deceiving.”

“Well I think he’s a remarkable man, mother,” Bard said, attempting to roll his eyes but instead just blinking. With that, Bard moved to head upstairs. His mother decided to follow him, shaming him as he walked. If it wasn’t hard enough for Bard to climb the stairs whilst drunk, walking upstairs whilst drunk with his mother shouting at him for being disrespectful was _even worse_.

 

Mrs Bowman was furious when she awoke the next day to find that her son would not only be absent for lunch but for dinner also. Bard was having lunch with a few friends in town and then dinner with Thranduil (he purposefully forgot to mention the blonde’s name, not wanting to distress his mother anymore than he had done last night).

Bard had contemplated not going to dinner with Thranduil, both having been drunk when hey arranged it. Would Thranduil be there? Did Thranduil remember it? Bard had worried for a grand total of sixteen minutes before deciding that it Thranduil didn’t show up, bard could have dinner regardless; perhaps a nice solitary meal would help clear his head for it was far too jumbled at the moment, far too obsessed with a certain shade of blonde and a distinct monotonous voice – Bard refused to read too deeply into that.

And so when bard entered Gondor and joined the queue for a table, he was pleasantly surprised to see a familiar waterfall of white-blonde hair draped over a pristine white suit, sat not far from the entrance. Thranduil turned, as if sensing Bard was there. They locked gazes. Bard smiled. Thranduil nodded.

“I didn’t expect you to show,” Thranduil admitted as Bard sat down and was promptly handed a menu by a well-dressed waiter.

“Despite being drunk, I did agree to it,” Bard replied, smiling slightly. Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “I am the sort of person who keeps his word, Thranduil.”

“That I can see,” The elder said, nodding.  Bard felt, for a moment, as if Thranduil had looked him up and down, an action Bard had seen many men do to women. Bard shrugged it off. Thranduil had, assumedly, been admiring Bard’s suit. Yes. That was most likely the case.

Dinner was marvellous. To Bard’s surprise, Thranduil was an avid talker when he found a mutual topic of interest. Both were loyal family members and so conversation of family took up most of the evening. Bard learnt that Thranduil hated horses, hated unnecessary socialising and, more than anything, hated the government. Thranduil learnt that bard enjoyed reading, fishing, walking and, similarly to Thranduil himself, did not see the point in socialisation without purpose. Both realised, jovially as the night came to an end, that what theory were doing was in fact unnecessary socialisation. This was how they ended up at the Oropherion manor, Bard howling with laughter, Thranduil chuckling along in agreement.

Thranduil led Bard to his study where he promptly asked Bard if he would like a drink.

 “Scotch?” Thranduil suggested, gesturing to his cabinet of liquor.

“Yes, please,” Bard replied and Thranduil poured them both half a tumbler.

“This enough?”

“Perfect, yes, thanks.”

Thranduil handed the younger a glass and then sat down in the chair opposite Bard. Bard took a sip of the drink and sighed in pleasure.

“I will admit, Bard, I am surprised,” Thranduil said as the two men sipped at their drinks.

“By?” Bard asked.

“Your willingness to converse with me,” Thranduil replied. “I am, as are all Oropherions, not known for my pleasant behaviour nor for my ‘kind heart’...” Thranduil snorted at the sentence, as if amused by a personal joke. Bard shrugged.

“It does not bother me,” Bard admitted. “You have other redeeming qualities.”

“Such as?”

“Loyalty,” Bard replied. “Honesty, intelligence, charisma.”

“And I see that flattery is one of yours,” Thranduil teased. Bard smirked and raised his glass to Thranduil before downing the rest of it. Thranduil leant over and topped it up.

 

It became commonplace for Bard and Thranduil to meet up regularly. The frequency of their meetings increased with the upcoming amount of balls. As two bachelors, it wasn’t unusual for them to attend balls together as long as they danced their fair share with the single women. Bard and Thranduil, over the course of a few weeks, created themselves a nifty system. Bard would dance with he younger women for a few songs whilst thranduil acquired them drinks. Bard would then announce “aha, my friend has gotten my drink” and would leave the ballroom to join Thranduil. Bard would then take both their drinks and head off in search of a ‘hiding place’ whilst Thranduil did his share of dancing. After a few songs he would ask whichever lady he was dancing with if they saw where his friend disappeared to. She would, obviously, reply she had not and Thranduil would make an apologetic escape. It was a genius, foolproof plan that, combined with brunch once a week, secured a tight friendship between Bard and Thranduil.  

 

 

One night, after a particularly length ball, Bard ended up staying the night at the Oropherion manor. At three minutes past two am, the two crashed into the study.

“Good ball,” Bard said, slipping into the study where Thranduil had retired too once his guests had left. Bard had seen his drunken parents to their car before returning, asking Alfrid to come back for him in about an hour.

“I agree,” Thranduil answered, nodding. Bard poured them a glass of scotch each, being at ease in the other male’s study by now. “Are we still on for brunch tomorrow?”

“Assuming you stay free from the dreads of alcohol poisoning,” Bard said jokily. Thranduil scoffed and downed his scotch in one. Bard rolled his eyes.

“I get the feeling brunch is going to turn into lunch,” Thranduil said, eying the tumbler he had just downed. Bard laughed and sat beside his friend. Thranduil poured himself another glassful and downed that. “Perhaps even dinner at this rate.”

“Could you possibly drink anymore?” Bard asked, laughing. Thranduil went to down his glass but realised he had already finished the drink. He went to grab for Bard’s but Bard downed his before Thranduil could get anywhere near it. Bard laughed and Thranduil grumbled.

 

A maid found them in the morning, collapsed on top of each other on the floor. The bottle of scotch was empty. Bard’s tie was missing and so were Thranduil’s shoes. The maid did not ask questions, merely waking her master and his friend. Neither male seemed to sense anything strange had happened and so the maid kept it to herself that the two men had fallen asleep entwined in each other’s arms. After a hefty breakfast, Thranduil sent Bard on his way home.

 

 

It was a week before the two men met again. Bard had not expected Thranduil at all that day and so had gone about his daily routine. It was only when a loud whiney from the horse he was currently sat atop was followed by a sharp “Christ!” that bard realised Thranduil had come to visit him at all. Thranduil’s hatred for horses amused Bard incredibly. In Thranduil’s own words, it wasn’t a ‘hatred’, merely a preference of other mechanisms of travel.

Bard noticed Thranduil stood a few metres away and he dismounted the horse, passing a grin to Thranduil.

“I did not realise you’d come to visit so early,” Bard admitted, taking off his riding hat.

“I did not realise you rode ungodly beasts so early,” Thranduil snapped back. Bard laughed and Thranduil rolled his eyes.

“What brings you over this early?” Bard asked as he handed his riding gear to the stable boy.

“I am playing a piece at the Sindarin this evening and was curious if you would like to come and listen,” Thranduil explained. Bard frowned. He had heard Thranduil mention that he played a “damn good piano forte or two” but Bard had never imagined that Thranduil played for the public. Bard shrugged.

“Perhaps,” Bard replied. Thranduil nodded.

“I understand you are busy,” Thranduil said, hands clasping behind his back. “But the invitation stands should you choose to change your mind.”

“I did not say no, Thranduil,” Bard said, raising an eyebrow.

“Perhaps always means no,” Thranduil said, quirking his upper lip, an almost smile coming from the blonde male. “Anyway, I will depart now before those four legged demons pounce on me.” Thranduil turned and began his leave off the estate.

“Horses do not pounce!” Bard called after his friend. Thranduil turned, raised an eyebrow as if to inform Bard that he really did not care what horses did so long as they did it far away from him, and carried on his walk. Bard sagged against his horse, laughing softly. “He is the oddest man i have ever met.”

“Who is?” Came the ever-curious voice of his youngest sister.

“Oh, just a friend,” Bard replied, smiling.

“You don’t have any friends,” The little girl said, frowning. Bard laughed, shaking his head.

“I have one.”

 

 

Bard had originally declined the invitation but upon realising his entire evening was going to be spent either cooped up in his library or sat at a table with his parents and a selection of their high-class, snobby friends, Bard had called Alfrid to ready the car. They pulled up to the Sindarin, a bar that Bard had never in fact set foot in before. It was incredibly high-class, a favoured place for the upper and middle classes to court each other. But Bard was not here for women.

Thranduil played at the Sindarin, under a pseudonym of course. Supposedly, Thranduil was one of the greatest piano players in his family. Bard was unsure, having only ever heard a piano forte over a distance. But tonight he was going to experience it firsthand. He would drink, perhaps have a bite to eat, and listen to some good music. At least he hoped the music would be good. But, Bard supposed, anything Thranduil did would be good.

The car pulled up and Alfrid got out, opening the door for Bard. The male sneered at Bard. Bard rolled his eyes.

“Will ya be needing me later, sir?” Alfrid asked.

“No, I can share a lift back with a friend,” bard replied. Alfrid nodded and got back into the car. He didn’t drive off until bard was giving his name at the door.

“Bowman?” The man at the door asked. “First name?”

“Bard.”

“Yes, welcome.”

 

 

Bard did not clock the music until he was sat in a plush red leather chair, presumably double that of the price of Bard’s most expensive suit, and handed a glass of wine. Music filled his ears, suddenly, as his lips tasted the first drop of wine. Bard turned, trying to locate the source of the tune.

A mass of blonde hair rose from the top of the grand-piano, a piano more grand than any Bard had ever seen before. And it was Thranduil, poised as elegantly as ever, face as cold as stone. But instead of the scrunched up glare of unease on the blonde’s face, Thranduil’s expression more open, less tense. Bard could not look away.

Music filled the room like the air filled the earth. It felt as if it had a place here, in this bar. Albeit the noise coming from the patents, Bard found himself fully relaxed, his entire being fixated on the noise and the man creating it. Bard was not sure for how long he sat there listening to the gliding of chords and the tapping of notes but after a while, the music stopped and clapping took its place. Bard followed the sound and clapped along with others in the bar but Bard felt his stomach knot. He did not want the music to end. Amidst his moment of annoyance that the music set was finished, bard did not notice a figure arrive at his table.

 “How did you find it?” Came the cool voice of Thranduil. Bard shifted in his seat, looking up at the tall figure looming above him, shaking himself from his pool of thoughts.

“It was incredible,” Bard admitted, honestly. He gestured to the seat opposite him. Thranduil nodded and sat down. “Not as incredible as the pianists of Paris or Italy, perhaps, but incredible all the same.”

“Thank you,” Thranduil replied as he gestured for a waiter to bring him a glass of wine. “That means a great deal to me, Bard.”

The two sat and drank for hours long into the night and the next morning. It may have seemed weird to some, a middle-class male conversing with a much more upper-class male late at night, but Bard found a connection with Thranduil he had had with no other. Thranduil, no matter how different he was, seemed to have similar views and experiences. And Bard valued that. Thranduil may have been perceived as cold and reclusive to many but Bard had learnt over these few weeks that Thranduil was more than that. Thranduil was a caring man hidden in a stone-cold shell.

“Would you like to come back to mine for a drink, Bard?” Thranduil asked as they finished their third bottle of wine.

“I doubt I could hold anymore alcohol,” Bard admitted, grinning widely, all teeth, all drunk. Thranduil smirked. “But I could manage a cup of tea?”

“Settled.”

 

 

Bard had not expected Thranduil to lead them to the drawing room when they entered the manor that evening but Thranduil did. It seemed that thranduil was not done playing the piano. Thranduil played the piano until ungodly hours of the morning and Bard hummed along to each tune he knew. It was pleasant, calming. But also, strangely, Bard felt a buzzing sensation coursing through him.  He knew it was the alcohol, it had to be. Right?

As the clock chimed two am, Thranduil stopped his playing. He and bard retired to the study where Thranduil poured them a cup of tea each. Bard thought nothing of it when Thranduil sat beside him on the sofa. Bard also thought nothing of it when Thranduil leaned heavily against him. Bard enjoyed Thranduil's company. he valued Thranduil's company. A lot. Infact Bard valued Thranduil's company so much that Bard was half convinced he'd do anything for the man. His younger sister had joked, once, that if Thranduil were a woman Bard would have proposed and married her by now. bard had laughed and agreed. only later had Bard realised that what he had, in fact, said what that Thranduil was marriage worthy. If he were a woman. But the only difference between a male and a female were...-

Thranduil pulled bard from his thoughts by pressing a hand to Bard's cheek. Bard looked up, frowning heavily at Thranduil. Thranduil said nothing. He was too close for Bard to be able to read his expression. Bard jolted slightly. They were incredibly close together, so close that bard could see himself in Thranduil's blazing blue, almost grey, eyes. Bard moved. Forwards. He wanted to blame the alcohol but in reality it was the enigmatic presence of Thranduil that drew him forwards. 

Their lips met in a long awaited kiss, one that was much too overdue and very much needed. Bard had not realised how badly he had needed this. Thranduil slipped a hand behind Bard's neck and Bard lunged forwards, grabbing onto Thranduil's shirt, tugging open several of the buttons in what bard would later refer to as 'first time fever'. Thranduil hastily removed Bard's tie and waistcoat and began work on Bard's own buttons. However their position was cramped, the two sat sideways at an awkward angle. bard took the initiative. With one strong pull, he pulled the two of them up, so they stood pressed fully together. One of them, or most likely both of them, moaned in pleasure. It was thanks to that moan that neither heard the door opening. 

 

bard should have heard her, he later scolded himself. She was a maid. She was not silent. She was loud and busy. it was only when she went to leave that bard noticed. The maid merely went about her business, albeit more hurriedly than usual. She moved towards the door, to exit after having collected the empty scotch glasses, and stepped on a creaky floorboard. Bard stopped, staggering back. The maid left the room. And Bard felt like he wanted to too, his stomach suddenly becoming a ball of anxiety and disgust. He furiously blinked.

“Bard?” Thranduil asked, frowning. “Is something wrong.”

“She did not bat an eyelid,” Bard hissed.

“Pardon?” Thranduil asked, frowning, genuine confusion clouding his eyes. “Who did not what?”

“That maid,” Bard mumbled. "Did not find it odd or horrific that I was in here... with you... in such a...”

“Such a what?”

"In such a compromising state!” Bard exclaimed. “To anyone else, the police would have been the first thing on their mind – ‘quick, i have found two men... two men...’...” Bard looked up at Thranduil. The man looked truly ravished. Bard realised he had done that. Bard was not ashamed. Far from it. He was terrified in fact. Prison was not on his agenda. He was rich. Prison would ruin him and his family’s name. He would not endanger his sisters nor rob them of their heritage. This could not continue. This could not happen. And so before Thranduil could say another word Bard turned and ran out of the room through the French doors and burst into the night air. The cool breeze hit him like a wave.

“Bard?” It was Thranduil. Bard breathed in, shaking his head. He pressed the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply. The light from the inside would illuminate Bard, stood where he was but Thranduil had made no move to come out to him. Bard respected that.

After a long few minutes of silence,  Bard swore, furiously flicking away his cigarette and turning around. Thranduil remained in the doorway, his shirt ruffled from where Bard had grabbed it earlier. The memory made Bard shiver; whether it was in pleasure or disgust, Bard was not sure. After the eye-lock intensified, Thranduil took a step forward. When bard didn’t move, he made more steps, standing in front of bard but a metre or so away.

“Bard, it is cold,” Thranduil said. “Come inside.”

“The cold doesn’t bother me,” Bard replied monotonously. That was unusual for Bard. Bard was the enigmatic, caring, emotional man whereas Thranduil was the usually monotone of the pair. Pair. Bard inwardly scoffed at the word. He and Thranduil were not a pair. They were far from it. So different. Bard had never met a man who was both so different and so similar to him. “Bard?” Thranduil asked. It was clear he had been speaking and Bard had missed it.

“Hmm?” The younger asked.

“Would you like for me to call a car for you?” Thranduil asked. His voice was empty and he looked devastated. Bard couldn’t understand why. Thranduil was, in the eyes of a law, a criminal and yet he was stood before Bard, an expression bard could only identify as ‘moping’.

“Yes.”

Thranduil nodded and turned, walking back inside. Bard panicked. He watched Thranduil walk away and his heart clenched. Bard felt sick. He could not feel like this. His sisters would suffer if Bard felt like this. Bard was a martyr, he knew. But family came before all else and despite a deep sense of longing, of need, for Thranduil to be a part of that family too, his sisters would always come first. And so Bard would not allow this to continue any longer.

When Thranduil came back out to inform Bard a car was there for him, bard had gone through three more cigarettes and his hair was a rugged mess around his stubbled face. Thranduil took a step towards Bard, a hand outstretched as if to touch Bard, caress him perhaps. But Bard moved away and Thranduil let his hand drop, swinging in the breeze like a lonely swing set.

 

Bard waited outside, going through cigarettes like they were air. He waited for five minutes but no car came. After almost ten minutes a figure appeared from the garage. A male with long brown hair. Bard recognised him.

“Mr Bowman?” Came a gentle voice. Bard sighed heavily.

“Yes, Feren?” Bard mumbled.

“I was ordered to drive you home,” Feren replied. “But there are some things-”

“Damn the things, Feren,” Bard said coldly, brushing off the younger male. Feren sighed.

“Mr Bowman, this is important.”

“I am not interested in the needs of you or your master,” Bard replied. Feren sighed impatiently.

“Mr Bowman he has not slept a wink since-“

“Please, Feren, leave it.”

“He has not slept since Monday.”

“Monday was yesterday, Feren, that’s hardly-”

“Last Monday, sir!” Feren cut in. Bard’s eyes widened and his mouth twitched.  “Precisely. He has not slept a wink and the staff are worried. When you arrived we were all glad.”

2Glad?” Bard asked, frowning.

“You appear to be the only one who makes him see sense, save for his brother but Gods does he rarely visit,” Feren said hurriedly.

“Feren, i do not know what you expect me to do...”

“Go back to him,” Feren admitted. “Tell him what he wants to hear.”

“You want me to lie?!” Bard exclaimed. Feren raised an eyebrow, a trick the young male must have picked up from his master.

“Would you be lying, though, Mr Bowman?”

 

 

Bard based his decision to return inside to Thranduil sorely on the fact that the man needed sleep and nothing else despite Feren’s insistence that there _was_ something else. Bard had been expecting a cold greeting from Thranduil, monotonous and avoiding, considering the way Bard practically ran out on him. So to find Thranduil slumped inelegantly in his arm-chair, a glass of scotch hanging precariously loosely from his fingers was, to say the least, a shock.

“I see Feren succeeded,” Was the first thing Thranduil said. Bard frowned, remaining in the doorway. “In bringing you back I mean.”

“Are you insane?” Bard blurted out. Thranduil scoffed.

“I wish,” The blonde replied. He sighed and put the scotch glass on the side table. “Will you sit?”

“I am not here to chat,” Bard said, hating himself for the abruptness but feeling as if it was needed. He could not stay for long without saying or doing something foolish. Incredibly foolish. He had run off already. To Bard’s shock, Thranduil did not say anything. He merely nodded and adjusted himself, sitting up straight. Bard had expected Thranduil to demand answers, to pester and pester Bard with questions that the brunette would be unable to answer. But instead Thranduil let Bard get comfortable.

 “Is it true your sister has found love,” Thranduil said conversationally after minutes of tense silence. Where he had heard that, bard would love to know. It was true, of course, his sister had found love and with a fisherman nonetheless. And why was Thranduil bringing that up only now?

“With a man at the sea, yes,” Bard replied. Thranduil hummed. Bard sensed there was an underlying reason as to why Thranduil had made the statement, other than polite conversation. “Why did you ask?”

“I wondered if it was peculiar for you,” Thranduil answered. “That your younger sister has found love before you.”

“Oh, really?” Bard asked, frowning.

“Yes, I wondered if-”

“Thranduil, don’t be teasing,” Bard said, sighing harshly. Bard ran a hand through his hair. “You have a reason for everything and a motive behind everything. What do you want to ask?”

“I have asked what i wanted to,” Thranduil replied.

“No, you have not,” Bard murmured.

“Will you not answer my question?” Thranduil asked.

“Do i find it peculiar that my sister is in love?” Bard queried. Thranduil nodded. “Of course not, no!”

“Interesting,” Thranduil hummed.

“Thranduil....” Bard glowered, folding his arms. “You would not have summoned me back here to ask about my sister.”

“Would I not have?” Thranduil asked rhetorically.

“For the love of God...!” Bard snapped, getting to his feet. This was out of character for him. Perhaps this would shake the blonde into getting to the point he really wanted to make.

“Leaving so soon?” Thranduil asked, monotonously. And there it was, the cold shell resuming itself around Thranduil. Bard could not take this, especially not on a weekday morning.

“Oh I cannot do this,” Bard said as he made his way to the door. “You called me back here after... after _that_ happened, Thranduil and you want to talk about my sister?!”

“Bard!” Thranduil hissed suddenly but Bard has already left the room. “Bard – stop, one moment.”

 “What?” Bard asked, turning. Thranduil was stood in the doorway to his study, staring at Bard with an expression Bard could not read.

“I called you back because I need you to know,” Thranduil said darkly. “That what happened earlier was not... I do not do that often. Ever.”

“On?” Bard asked. He scoffed. “And by that you mean...?”

“I am not a man who does that lightly,” Thranduil explained. “Crime, I mean.”

“I am not a fucking homosexual, Thranduil,” Bard snapped. Thranduil’s body seemed to jolt, an unusual movement for the usually still and stoic man. It was then that Bard realised this was the first time either of them had addressed their ‘problem’ using the word itself. “I am not!”

“I would think otherwise,” Thranduil said, shaking his head.

“You are accusing me of being a criminal, Thranduil,” Bard exclaimed. “That I cannot accept.”

“You cannot accept it?” Thranduil asked. His eyebrows shot upwards. “You are twenty years of age and at your prime! You are handsome and intelligent and no one would accuse you of being a homosexual.” Bard winced at the harshness of the word when it spilled from the blonde’s lips. Thranduil, to Bard’s discomfort, actually sneered at him. “But I? I am a man older than you, living alone in the house of his family. I, Bard, am a prime suspect for homosexuality.”

“Are you telling me to leave?” Bard asked, frowning in confusion.”

“No.”

“You are making an awfully good case for yourself as to why i should not associate with you, Thranduil,” Bard said shortly. Thranduil looked as if he wanted to hit something. Or someone. Bard hoped to God that no servants chose this moment to walk down the corridor. Silence fell for a few seconds, neither male being able to look each other in the eye. This was rare for the two as the pair had gotten used to the frequent eye contact.

“I... Feel the same as you,” Thranduil said, breaking the silence.  His words were uneasy, uncomfortable. Thranduil was not one for expressing feelings to his family let alone Bard.

“Which is what?” Bard asked, still trying to play the ‘dumb’ card. Thranduil ignored it.

“Regardless of whether it is a criminal offence or not,” Thranduil said, looking up and connecting his gaze with Bard’s. Bard, for the first time since seeing Thranduil this morning, could read the other male’s expression. Longing. Thranduil was longing. “I believe we should attempt-”

“I am not happy on becoming a criminal,” Bard snapped.

 “I... appreciate that you need some time to think this over but,” Thranduil took a breath. He was tired and bored of this conversation but he needed Bard to understand, to hear him out. “I am playing at the Sindarin this Friday. If you would like... if you would like us to try this, despite the fact that us can only happen within the walls of my home... Come and see me.”

“I am not in love with you,” Bard said suddenly, eyes wide.. Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “You have misread this.”

“Have I?” Thranduil asked, folding his arms. Bard felt his blood run cold. “Dear Bard, I do not think that i have at all.”

“You have,” Bard insisted, nodding furiously. “You very much have!”

“Why are you so persistent in this?” Thranduil asked. Before Bard could answer, Thranduil made a noise of understanding. “Crime in your family would ruin it.”

“Crime in any family would-”

“And that would ruin your sister’s lives,” Thranduil hummed. “Have you never, in your life, done anything for _yourself_ , Bard?” When Bard did not answer, Thranduil continued. “If you come to me on Friday, I shall accept you into my arms, within _my_ walls – your sisters would never have to hear wind of it I promise you that. If you do not, you shall never have to look at me again if my homosexuality disgusts you. Feren?! Take Mr Bowman home.”

 

 

 

 

Thranduil was nearing the end of his set. It had been a hard one this evening. The crowd had been particularly rowdy and young and whilst they were interested in the music, they were more interested in trying to get as drunk as possible. Having been too caught up in his music, Thranduil didn’t notice the young waitress that came over to him, a glass of scotch on her tray. Thranduil finished his piece and took a short break to look at the woman.

“Yes?” Thranduil asked. The waitress placed a glass of scotch down on Thranduil’s side-table. “I did not order this.”

“Was ordered for you, sir,” She said. The woman gestured to a seat near the back of the club. The table was shadowed by the lack of light on the far wall but Thranduil could pick out Bard anywhere. Bard smiled at Thranduil across the room and it was as if the entire world faded away. Thranduil could not help himself. A small smile etched itself across his lips. Bard had come. Bard wanted him.

“Give the gentleman my thanks,” Thranduil said to the waitress and she nodded, walking off to finish her rounds and then to enact the pianists request. Thranduil took a sip of the scotch, his smile never fading. It was cool as it slid down his dry throat. He had been on edge all night but the unease had entirely faded from his body once his blue eyes had connected with Bard’s much darker, almost black orbs. 

Thranduil took a moment to compose himself before he started up the piano again. With only three more pieces left, Thranduil gave it his all, putting his heart and soul into it. He always gave his best as he neared the end of his set. And perhaps tonight there was more passion in the way his fingers graced the keys. If that had anything to do with Bard, no one would ever know. For although bard had come this evening, come to show that Thranduil was not alone in his longing for the other male, nothing could ever occur between them outside of their homes. But, perhaps, that was enough.

Bard lit a cigarette, his eyes never once leaving the blonde sat at the piano. How could they? Thranduil was a masterpiece, intellectually and physically. Bard wondered how he had ever lived without such a man. Bard took a long, much needed drag from his cigarette.

“The pianist gives you his thanks,” Said the waitress who had carried out Bard’s order earlier.

“Thank you,” Bard said, smiling at her. She nodded and moved onto the next table. Bard sighed and let himself relax into his chair, humming a tune akin to the one Thranduil was perfecting. Cigarette smoke filled Bard’s lungs and the tunes of his lover filled his ears and heart.


End file.
